Yearly Ritual
by TheDiamondSword400
Summary: Sometimes rituals reveal the best kept secrets


Deep in the middle of the Arabian desert a man walked, all alone.

If you were to ask this clearly suicidal man what in the world he was doing, he would tell you that he was going to see an old friend. While you stood there, gobsmacked in utter disbelief he would disappear, leaving only a trail of footprints behind him.

The man called himself Ali Muhammad, though that wasn't his only name.

He had a very slight figure, average height with a large hooked nose and a full gray beard with an odd physics defying curl on the end.

He was dressed in traditional grab, all white with an elaborate turban and strange curly toed shoes.

If you were to pull up his sleeves and pants you would find forty different watches, ten on each limb, ranging from hi-tech and antique, childish and unique. He had one for every time zone. Also for every planet. And Heaven and Hell. Also for Galifrey, Coruscant and Earth 16.

He also had a pocket watch, though that was rarely seen.

Mr Muhammad was considered an eccentric by all who knew him.

A shop owner in the poorer district with no family who lived out of his store. He sold everything from elaborately patterned rugs and clothes,enchanting lamps and paintings to seen on TV oddities and Hawaiian shirts.

But somehow everyone who entered his shop found what they were looking for.

He had been in that shop for fifty years.

Until he had closed up and wandered out into the desert.

The sun beat down him mercilessly, making him sweat and burn.

But still he walked.

He even started to whistle a happy tune, skipping to the melody. Soon he was all out dancing, kicking up sand in every direction as he froliced about.

Then, quite suddenly, he dropped to his knees and began to dig. Still whistling merrily as he tossed great clouds of sand behind him.

After several hours, he sat back on his heels and wiped his brow on his sleeve, his song having faded to a hum as he eyed what he had unearthed.

It was a stone tomb, scored and marred by time and sandstorms. Miraculously it still bore a few traces of writing on top, granted it was only a few indecipherable lines. All in all it was in surprisingly good shape and would make archaeologists drool with its secrets. But its only visitor would ever be the man kneeling beside it now.

The man's song chanced to something far more recognizable as he reached into his shirt and pulled out a small box and a paper bag. He carefully placed both atop the tomb.

Opening the box he removed a large cookie setting on a paper plate he pulled from the bag. He finally started to sing in earnest as he removed the last two objects from the bag. Some matches and a candle.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Al. Happy birthday to you."

Grinning, he sat back. The candle now stood balanced precariously in the center of the cookie, orange flame flickering cheerfully.

Muhammad shot the tomb a fond look and gestured to his masterpiece "Well? Go ahead and make a wish." he urged giddily.

He waited a few minutes without anything happening then shot the tomb an encouraging look "Come on, little buddy. Make a wish." he urged, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth "Just once more. It's your birthday, after all. You have to make a wish on your birthday." he reached out, laying a supportive hand on the tomb "Please."

A cold breeze suddenly came out of no where, somehow snuffing out the candle without knocking it over.

Muhammad grinned and jumped his feet.

As he did something startling happened.

His entire appearance changed.

Where before his appearance most resembled a pole, he was now roly-poly. His beard, still curled, was jet black. Reaching into his shirt again (his clothes had fortunately expanded to fit his frame) he pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. Inside the face of the clock was smashed, the hands stuck forever at seven twenty-one and fifty one seconds. (1)

The other side was engraved with the words:

To G From A

"See you next year, Al." he promised and trotted off into the dessert.

Behind him a cold wind blew, writing words in the sand beside the tomb.

See you next year, Genie

(1) This is a reference to Robin Williams birthday July 21, 1951 (7/21/51).


End file.
